


Goliath

by trentedeuxdents



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Angst, F/M, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Slow Burn, except there's Kaiju in the Atlantic now too so yay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2020-11-28 21:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20973305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trentedeuxdents/pseuds/trentedeuxdents
Summary: Throughout his short run as a Ranger, Damian Wayne has only ever been Drift compatible with three people: Bruce Wayne, who is too broken in body and mind to pilot another Jaeger; Dick Grayson, with whom things are... complicated; and Jason Todd, his father’s ex-copilot and the dead Ranger no one ever talked about—until he came back from the dead.





	1. Homecoming

**ANTI-KAIJU WALL. SITKA, ALASKA.**

Dick is the one that digs him out, eventually.

Jason watches as he steps out of the helicopter, flamboyant as ever, arms outstretched like a rockstar ascending the stage. It annoys Jason how much he hasn’t changed: same messy hair, same stupid grin, same sunny demeanour that doesn’t seem to be dampened by the freezing Alaskan weather in the slightest.

“Jason!” Dick calls out, laughing breathlessly like he can’t actually _ believe _ it.

“Dick,” Jason says acidly, deliberately making the word sound like the expletive and not the name.

As expected, it doesn’t perturb him in the slightest. Dick rushes over and wraps his arms around Jason in a brotherly hug, as if they haven’t seen each other for two days, not five whole years. Jason stands there stiffly, wanting to throw him off, but at the same time too taken aback to do so.

“I don’t—I _ didn’t _—back then, when Timmy said...” he babbles incoherently, blue eyes sparkling like the snow melting in his hair. Something murderous must flash in Jason’s eyes because Dick chooses, wisely, then, to back off and let go. Jason looks down and realizes that Dick’s shorter than him now. In spite of everything else, a sense of long-forgotten gratification rises in his chest.

After five more seconds of glaring into that blinding grin, Jason grinds out reluctantly. “What the fuck do you want.”

Dick’s grin widens, if possible, as if that’s the nicest greeting he’s ever received. “To offer a proposition,” he says. “There’s a new Jaeger, and she needs a co-pilot.”

Even after all these years, Dick’s unwavering belief that he can charm his way through any situation still manages to catch Jason by surprise. The sheer amount of audacity it takes to seek him out, five years too late, and barefacedly offer him a fucking _ proposition _ is almost as impressive as it is insulting.

“You have _ got _ to be fucking kidding.”

He’s piloted a Jaeger. He’s _ died _ in a Jaeger. He’s been washed ashore, three hundred miles off the shore of Gotham, where nobody came looking because they all took for granted that it was hopeless.

The immense anger that he was so at loss to channel just a few moments ago now comes crashing down around the both of them like a tidal wave. “You leave me the _ fuck _ alone, _ Dick _ .” Jason snarls, and Dick actually takes a step back. “You go back and tell _ him _ that I’m _ done _ saving the fucking world.”

He turns around and storms off. He should have guessed Dick wouldn’t let him go that easily.

“His name is Damian,” Dick calls out behind him, and Jason’s stupid limbs decide to freeze in some sort of pavlovian reflex. “Damian al Ghul Wayne.” Dick weighs out each syllable slowly and carefully, as if he could possibly understand the amount of significance that hangs onto each word.

Jason turns around slowly, mechanically. It’s as if two ends of a fence are converging, enclosing him within. The end of his past life and the beginning of his present life, once breached by an impossible abyss, now bridge together to form some sort of nightmarish mobius strip.

He doesn’t move as Dick approaches him tentatively, one hand reaching inside his breast pocket. He retrieves a glossy three inch photo and holds it out to Jason. “Your co-pilot,” he explains. Jason stares but doesn’t take it. It’s a standard academy photo, taken in full cadet uniform. The boy—_ Damian _—glares out at him, looking painfully young, and every bit like Jason imagined a child of Bruce and Talia would. There’s Bruce, in the arch of his faint scowl and the stoic cut of his chin; but the jade-green eyes—deep, cold, glittering—are Talia’s and Talia’s alone.

Jason swallows. There’s still a gap in the fence. He could still make it, if he wants. To spend the rest of his days in the safe monotony of the Wall; to stay far, far away from the people and machines that are bound to dredge up memories worse than nightmares.

He averts his eyes. There is too much of her in the boy’s gaze.

“When do we leave?”

*

**GOTHAM SHATTERDOME**

Gotham is every bit as depressing as Jason remembers, an ugly landfill crowded with collapsed buildings that the government gave up on repairing decades ago. Almost all the civilians retreated inland throughout the years. The powerful and the filthy rich were the first to go; then slowly, as Kaiju attacks grew more frequent and unpredictable, the rest of the city followed. If he squints, he might still spot a couple of Harvesters milling like tiny black ants amongst the wreckage, but for the most part, the city is deserted. The Shatterdome is the only hub of life left, an iron gray dome pulsing like a tumor on the edge of this graveyard of a city.

The harbor wind sweeps over the deck as they descend from the helicopter. The air is salty and wet, thrumming with the rhythm of helicopter blades, aircraft engines, and people yelling orders at each other. Barely anyone has a glance to spare in their direction, for which Jason is grateful. Their welcome party is thankfully small, comprised of a thin, jittery kid that looks like he either overdoses on crack or caffeine, and Alfred.

The old butler moves forward to clap a hand on Jason’s shoulder, smiling at him like he’s never left. “It’s good to see you, Master Jason.”

“You too, Alfred.” Jason is surprised at how much he means it. The jittery kid looks both tired and nervous, eyes darting up and down his figure with restrained curiosity. Jason can almost see the cogs whirring in his brain, drawing up spreadsheets and connecting all the dots in his mental database. 

“And this is Timmy,” Dick announces, throwing an arm around the kid’s shoulders, effectively jerking him out of distraction. Blue eyes snap up to meet his and a pale hand shoots out jerkily.

“Yes. Of course. Sorry. Tim Drake, head of J-Tech. I mean, that’s what it says on the files, but I mostly just do Jaegers. Other people are in charge of all the other...stuff.” He finishes lamely, hand drooping a little. In an ideal world Jason would have stared the kid down until he squirmed, but Alfred’s presence is a force to be reckoned with, so Jason obliges and gives Tim’s hand a brisk, perfunctory shake.

“Well, gentlemen,” Alfred announces, smiling hospitably. “Now that introductions are out of the way, shall we head inside for a lovely cup of tea?”

*

Tea, as it turns out, is just the two of them. Dick had to scamper off and report back to HQ, and Tim was ambushed en route by an anxious technician babbling about malfunctioning electrical conduits. That leaves only Jason and Alfred in the empty galley with a pot of Earl Grey between them and a plate of homemade cookies. Still slightly more nostalgic than Jason is comfortable with, but the absence of both Dick and Tim makes it that much more bearable. He doesn’t _ hate _ Tim, per se, but betrayal is an old wound that does not heal easy, especially when sore reminders live and breathe in the same space as him.

They make light conversation. The casual familiarity would be unbearably condescending coming from anyone else, but with Alfred it feels warm and safe. The tense seven-hour flight had left him exhausted, and there’s only so many raging outbursts he can deal out in one day.

Eventually, however, once they’ve exhausted all discussion on mess-hall dining schedules, the conversation winds down to the inevitable.

“He wasn’t there today. On the deck.”

Alfred pauses mid-sip. “No. I suspect the Marshal is awfully busy at this time of day, not that that justifies his absence.” He sets his teacup delicately back in its saucer and sighs. “If I may be so frank, Master Jason, I think it would be inadvisable for the both of you to meet at present, considering the circumstances.”

Jason scoffs. “You mean the fact that he thought I was dead, so he replaced me within three months and never came looking afterwards.” He says bitterly.

A shadow of grief passes over Alfred’s face. “I cannot apologize in Master Bruce’s stead, nor do I intend to make excuses for him. But you must believe me when I say that he has suffered deeply, and that neither of you are yet prepared to confront each other.”

Jason lapses into a mutinous silence, glaring half-heartedly at the bottom of his teacup. He knows, of course, deep down, that the meeting would be untimely. Five years of exile has given him plenty of time to brood over the fact that all that’s happened is as much as anyone’s fault as it is an inevitable outcome of fate. But it hasn’t much altered the fact that he would gladly hurl a batarang into Bruce’s face if he had the chance.

Alfred places a hand lightly on his wrist, and when he speaks again, his tone is gentle but sad. “Forgive my imprudence, Master Jason, but had I any sway over such matters, I would never have wished for you to come back.”

Jason looks into his wrinkled brown eyes and knows, inherently, that there is no selfishness behind those words, only infinite sorrow and regret. He often wonders what it would have been like if he had died that day. To simply destroy the wheel before it could turn, cut everything loose before the spiral. It probably would have saved him a great deal of pain, and everyone else, a great deal of guilt.

“Well. We can’t run away forever, Alf.” The corners of his mouth jerk into what he hopes is a grin. “And besides, that’s not what I came back for.”

Alfred nods, turning his face away momentarily to compose himself. “The boy,” he says understandingly.

“Yes,” he replies. “Damian.” It strikes Jason that this is the first time he’s ever said the name out loud.

“He has had...quite the upbringing.” The corners of Alfred’s mouth twitch slightly. “Mostly his mother’s influence, of course, but the mulish stubbornness bears an uncanny resemblance to his father’s. It irks Master Bruce to no end. But I suppose you shall see for yourself, tomorrow, during the trials.”

Jason raises his teacup in a mock toast. “Can’t wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not intended to be a long term project, or even a serious one. This was devised purely as a personal exercise, and operates off a random checklist of my kinks and post-REM sleep headcanons instead of any form of a solid, functioning plotline. All con-crit and suggestions are welcome, but kindly refrain from asking for updates in the comments. Thanks!


	2. Trials

**KWOON COMBAT ROOM, 0700 HOURS.**

_Thud. _

Jason feels all the breath rush out of his lungs as he hits the mat. Cass towers over him, freakishly imposing for someone so petite, and taps his ankle with the end of her jo staff.

“Again.”

Jason slumps to the ground and groans.

He hadn’t slept well last night. He dreamt that he was drowning again, inky black water crushing in on all sides, silver bubbles rising through the darkness like strings of pearls. All the while something with green eyes circled the deep, watching, waiting.

He was almost glad when Dick came banging on his door at six in the morning. Dick wrestles him out of bed and then drags him down to the Kwoon for what he cheerfully calls “warm-ups”, then promptly dumps him there like a parent on the first day of kindergarten.

“Warm-ups” turn out to be Jason getting his ass kicked in the Combat Room by a five foot five Ranger-slash-ex-assassin by the name of Cassandra Cain. Twenty minutes into the workout and Jason’s convinced she must possess some form of telepathy, because there’s no other way she could anticipate every single one of his moves _every single fucking time_.

“Seriously? I thought this was supposed to be a _warm-up_.” Jason rocks to his feet, grumbling. He can feel the two protein bars Dick stuffed in his face and called “breakfast” churning uncomfortably in his stomach.

“Will be warm-up...compared to...later.” Cass shrugs and gives him one of her small, mysterious smiles. “You...think too much. Make you...easy to read.” She taps the side of her head. “Must think _less_.”

“Think less.” Jason mutters under his breath. “Right.” He picks up his staff and they each fall back into their beginning stances. Jason takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Banishes all thoughts of green eyes and silver bubbles from his mind.

He opens his eyes and lunges.

*

**JAEGER HANGAR, 1200 HOURS.**

It turns out the hangar is still Jason’s favorite place in the Shatterdome. Up here on the platforms, in particular, where the lights are dim and he can overlook everything without being seen. Across from him, two Jaegers stand majestically in their bays, twin colossi looming over the rest of the complex. Small armies of technicians, engineers, and repair workers crawl up and down their hulls; drilling, welding, shedding orange sparks like rain. 

He still loves it, all of it: the noise, the fumes, the sheer scale of everything. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be lost in the immensity of the Shatterdome, to feel so tiny and insignificant, yet at the same time grounded by the certainty that he was integral to all of this.

Jason leans against the railings and lights up a cigarette. _Technically_ it’s against the rules, but he figures no one is going to notice amidst the smell of burning metal anyway. 

That is, unless someone decides to come looking for him.

The grating behind him creaks and Jason puffs out a lungful of smoke and sighs. “_Don’t,_” he warns without turning around.

“Wasn’t going to.” Babs glides forward in her wheelchair until she’s parked right next to him. “Cass tells me practice went well,” she begins conversationally.

Jason snorts. “Didn’t take her for the patronizing type.” Babs side-glances him but doesn’t say anything. She’s always been good at reading people like that. “She’s...nice, I guess.” He admits eventually. “Real damn quiet.” 

“Steph probably talks enough for the both of them,” Babs cracks a smile. “We all thought she was going to be Dick’s co-pilot, at first.”

Jason turns at that. He looks at her, and the impulse to say he’s sorry is automatic, as if sympathy will somehow magically fix her spine and patch up all the tears in her head where Joker had clawed through. As if he has any right to pity her, simply because he _knows _what it feels like, to be ripped out of your own brain by a two hundred feet monster and left with nothing but a huge, gaping hole where your co-pilot used to be.

But she sits there, upright in her wheelchair, fiery red hair alight with the sparks that rain from above; and Jason also knows that Barbara Gordon is without a doubt one of the strongest people he has ever known.

“You look good,” he says instead. 

“Thanks.” Babs smiles back at him, warm and genuine. “Mission Control suits me.”

“I’ll bet.” He takes another drag and turns towards the Jaegers. “So which one’s my ride?”

“Neither. Titan is still Dick’s; and that one—” she points to the sleek, lean Jaeger in black and purple, “—is Spoiler. Cass and Steph’s ride.”

“So what do I get?”

“Your old Jaeger.” She grins at the look of surprise on his face. “New and improved, of course. We stripped her down and gave her an overhaul. They’re still straightening out some kinks at the mill, but I expect you’ll get to see her within the week.”

“Huh.” Jason isn’t quite sure how he _should_ feel. It makes sense, after all, to build on an existing Jaeger instead of scraping a new one together from scratch.

Doesn’t make him feel any less punched in the gut though.

“Damian specifically asked for a red paint-job,” she continues amusedly. “He wants to rename it, I think.”

“Sounds like an idea.” He responds. He isn’t even aware that he’s gripping the railings until Babs starts staring. She has the good sense not to comment on it. 

“Well,” she announces, patting him on the arm. “Guess I’ll catch you later. Try not to break anything this afternoon.”

Jason scoffs. “It’s a trial, not a fight.”

“Oh trust me,” Babs nods knowingly as she wheels around to leave. “It will be.”

*

**KWOON COMBAT ROOM, 1530 HOURS.**

_Candidate trials commencing in 20 minutes. All personnel, please report to the Kwoon Combat Room._

The message repeats itself three times before Jason finds the will to drag himself up and out of his room. He’s not _nervous_—he's never nervous—but something inside him kinda, sorta, still...dreads it.

The entrance to the Kwoon is already starting to crowd up when he arrives. He spots Dick, his head ducked in conversation with a tall, dark-skinned redhead; and Cass, standing in a corner with a bubbly blonde-headed girl draped around her shoulders. She smiles when she spots him and waves in his direction. “Good luck,” she mouths.

“Thanks,” Jason replies grimly.

He’s just finished lining up his boots when he hears a hush fall over the corridor and the echo of boots striking against metal. Kate strides into the room, brisk and authoritative as ever in full blues, with an anxious Tim scurrying after her, clutching a clipboard.

Behind him, is Damian Wayne.

He emerges from the shadows of the corridor with predatory grace, cold eyes glimmering as they sweep across the room. He’s young—_very_ young—his figure slim but powerful in the way only a warrior trained from birth can be. Despite his youth, there is something deadly about him, something _breathtaking_, that reminds Jason of an unsheathed sword.

Then those cold, glimmering eyes land on Jason, and he feels his heart stop for two whole seconds.

“Mr. Todd, good of you to join us.” Kate interrupts the silence. “We shall now commence the trials. If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Drake,” she nods towards Tim, who fumbles hastily for his pen. “You know the rules: four strikes marks a win. Rangers, to your positions.”

Jason watches as Damian lines his boots neatly on the side of the mat and picks up his jo staff. He twirls it once, expertly, cocking his head to one side as he appraises Jason mockingly.

“_Jason_ _Todd_.” He draws out each word like he’s testing how they sound on his tongue. He sneers. “A pure waste of time. But we’ll see, won’t we?”

The first lunge is so swift and sudden Jason doesn’t expect it. He hears Kate bark out a “1-0” before he realizes that Damian has the end of his staff pointed at Jason’s throat. He suspects the kid would have gone ahead and crippled his larynx if Kate hadn’t been watching, hawk-eyed on the sidelines.

They step away from each other and Jason huffs out a laugh. So _this_ is how he wants to play it.

“Hope that’s not your only trick,” he says casually as they start circling each other. Damian prowls like a panther, and it’s almost mesmerizing, the way he moves through air like it’s water. “The element of surprise—” he darts forward suddenly, hooking Damian under the knee “—works only once.”

The kid lands with a thud on his back as Jason flips him over and pins him to the mat. He glares up at him, looking perfectly livid, and Jason smirks at the sound of Kate’s “1-1.”

“Release me,” he growls—and yep, that scowl is one hundred percent Bruce—and Jason obliges. They fall back into position, his stance noticeably more cautious this time. Well, Jason thinks, if it’s a fight he wants, it’s a fight he’s going to get.

*

The next two rallys are lengthier and more arduous, in which neither of them manages to one-up the other. Damian is fast, relentless, and by no means easy to read. He is, however, surprisingly predictable; and it’s only halfway through the fourth rally that Jason realizes why that is.

Damian fights exactly the way Jason would.

His moves are brutal and efficient, but geared towards offense; each strike merely a means to an end. _That_ is what makes him predictable, and so much more easy to break—all Jason has to do is counter his own intuition, hold the line of defense, and wear him out.

It doesn’t occur to him until after it's over that he’s never been this patient in a fight, ever.

The Kwoon echoes with yells and the sound of wooden staffs clacking, and the occasional smattering of applause when one of them strikes a hit. But it all fades out when they start up again, and then none of it—not the ache in his muscles, nor the weight of the staff—none of it matters except for the two of them, dancing around each other, locked into tandem. All Jason can feel is his heartbeat pulsing in his ears, and the hushed calm that lulls like a peaceful wave, washing over him.

This—this tranquility, this eye-of-the-storm...Jason has only felt it with one other person in his entire life.

The Drift.

Jason lets him take the winning hit, and he ends up on his back with Damian’s staff digging into his solar plexus. He’s panting hard, eyes wild—and he looks into Damian's eyes and sees his own revelation mirrored back at him. He's felt it as well, Jason _knows_ it; and for some reason he looks more furious than ever.

“4-3.”

Kate’s voice rings across the room and the corridor breaks into applause. He can hear Dick whooping in the distance, and has half a mind to stride over and punch him in the face if he doesn’t shut up soon—when a sudden voice cuts through the clangour and silences it.

“Enough.” Bruce is standing at the mouth of the corridor, the crowd parted on both sides to make way for him. “Damian, let him go.”

Damian throws Jason one last glower before backing off and sheathing the staff at his side.

“Father,” he says stiffly, and bows. Jason crawls to his feet and picks up his staff. He makes no move to mimic Damian.

Bruce looks older than Jason had imagined. His eyes are sunken, and his temples are streaked with white; but it’s the cane that throws Jason off the most (though his posture betrays a trace of his old pride), the way he leans on it, like he would be helpless otherwise.

Jason almost feels a twinge of pity.

“Co-pilots, report to the simulation room at 1800 hours. The rest of you are dismissed.” Bruce orders, and the crowd begins reluctantly to dissipate.

Jason turns towards Damian and reaches out a hand. The kid glares at it for two seconds before throwing down his staff and shoving past him, striding out the room still barefoot. 

“_Damian_,” Bruce growls out, but the kid's already disappeared down the corridor. Jason allows himself a smirk at that, and picks up his boots to follow. Bruce turns to him, now, looking for all the world as if there are a million things he wants to say but doesn’t know how to begin.

Jason suddenly realizes he doesn’t want to hear them.

He shakes his head. “Not now,” he says. Alfred was right as always, damn him. They're not ready.

Bruce’s lips thin into a line but he doesn’t argue.

Jason stalks down the corridor, his head pounding, a flicker of the Drift still tingling at his fingertips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no knowledge whatsoever of jodo, or martial arts tactics, or anything remotely similar. All descriptions are probably (definitely) inaccurate.
> 
> Also, just for reference, Jason is 24 in this, and Damian is somewhere between 16 and 17.


	3. Learning Curve (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just finished playing Arkham Knight and now my Batman fixation is back full swing. *Sigh*. 
> 
> Ah shit, here we go again.

**SIMULATION ROOM, 1830 HOURS.**

_His name is Damian._

Talia’s voice is like a whisper of silk, her hair a dark curtain slipping through his fingers. He wants to call her but only bubbles come rushing out, like strings of pearls scattering down a storm drain. The bang of a gun echoes in the darkness. A child screams, the sound warped underwater, morphing into a deafening, prehistoric screech. A massive, poisonous green eye blinks at him once, slowly; and then Bruce is yelling his name, _Jason_, his voice ragged with fear, one split-second before a giant claw descends from above and tears Jason out of the Conn-pod and flings him into the cold dark sea.

Then he’s falling, sinking, drowning. Jason lashes out desperately for something to hold on to, but his fingers find purchase on nothing but a wall of concrete. Smooth, impassive. Utterly unyielding. He hurls himself against it desperately, like the futile waves at the foot of the Wall, exploding into foam one last time before slinking back into the tide.

He wrenches his eyes open. 

_Neural bridge exercise invalid. _

There’s a pneumatic hiss and someone catches him as he collapses. People are rushing into the room, yelling at each other, but none of the words make sense. The world seems to have dissolved into one pulsating ball of white noise. Blue light washes over him as someone detaches him from the harness and yanks off his helmet. 

Jason gasps. 

_Drift sequence terminated. _The system states politely. _Would you like to try again?_

*

In his boxed, concrete office, Bruce looms over the desk, his expression like a thunderstorm. There was a time when Jason would have felt intimidated, perhaps more by Bruce’s disappointment than his fury, but those days are less than a shadow of a memory now. It also helps that he knows, inherently, that whatever happened in the simulation room had nothing to do with _him_.

“Either one of you care to explain what happened in there?” Bruce growls.

“Todd chased the R.A.B.I.T.” Damian says with a slight sneer. “I warned you he was unstable.”

Bruce turns to Tim, who is flittering on the periphery with his indispensable clipboard. Tim sighs.

“From the preliminary readings, yes, but we’re going to need a closer look before jumping to conclusions,” Tim looks pointedly at Damian. “I _warned_ you—” 

“Not now.” Bruce snaps, and the room falls silent. He turns back to the both of them. “I expected more from you.” 

“I fail to see how Todd’s incompetence is any fault of _mine—_”

“_ENOUGH!_” Bruce’s voice reverberates in the tiny room, and Damian holds his ground, unflinching, but falls silent. Bruce runs a hand over his tired face, tousling his impeccable salt-and-pepper hair. He considers the spreadsheets on his table for a moment, before turning his gaze back on Damian. 

“The new Jaeger arrives in two weeks.” Bruce announces, the vein of a threat underlying his tone, and this time there is no doubt that it’s aimed solely at Damian. “You have until then to learn how to work as a team. I will not jeopardize a billion-dollar military investment and countless civilian lives because _you are unable to cooperate_. There will be no second chances. Am I understood?”

Damian visibly bristles. It’s almost palpable the way he struggles to rein in his temper, before he finally grinds out: “Yes, sir.”

Bruce does not nod. “Dismissed.”

Damian turns on his heel and storms out of the room.

Jason is only three steps behind him, but he makes sure that they’re an acceptable distance away from the door before finally exploding. 

“Ok. _What the hell was that_?” His voice bounces off the concrete, making Damian stop in his tracks. 

“A demonstration of your incompetence,” Damian says snidely, turning around. “Everyone knows you’re not fit to Drift.”

“That is _not_ what happened and you know it.” Jason strides over until he has Damian backing up against a wall. “_You_ blocked me out of your mind on _purpose_.”

Damian lets out a short derisive laugh. “Your mind must be more broken than I thought—” 

“You’re hiding something.” Jason cuts him off. A flash of shock lances through Damian’s features before he manages to catch it and twist it into something ugly. _Jackpot_. 

“That’s none of your business, _Todd_.” He snarls. 

“Sorry to break it to you kid, but it _is_ my business.” Jason snipes right back. “In case you’ve forgotten—” he plants a hand on the concrete right next to Damian’s head, and leans down until Damian is forced to look him in the eye. “—_I’m_ your co-pilot now.”

If Damian was angry before, it’s nothing compared to this look of pure, venomous hatred that he fixes Jason with now. “_You_,” Damian hisses, taking a step forward, “will _never_ be my co-pilot.” 

Then he shoves Jason off and storms down the rest of the corridor. 

*

Jason does not see him again for almost two days, the majority of which he spends in the infirmary, being prodded and poked and shoved in and out of scanners. They even send down a Psych Analyst at one point (a pretty, young blonde by the name of Dr. Quinzel) to pick apart his brain, but she doesn’t manage to come up with anything more inventive than complex post traumatic stress disorder and severe psychological trauma—yeah, he did think he’d pass that test with flying colors.

It’s on day two, as he’s waiting in the doctor’s office for the results of his latest PET scan, that Tim Drake comes sweeping into the room.

He barely spares a glance in Jason’s direction, too busy drawing up a holo projector. Charts and spreadsheets and pictures of Jason’s brain pop up in mid air, casting a faint bluish glow. It takes Jason a few moments to curb the reflexive surge of intense dislike, before he manages to ask, with all intent to be sarcastic, “So you’re a brain doctor too?”

“Well no, but kind of.” Tim replies absently. “I mean, my Bachelor’s was in Mechanical Engineering and Computer Science? Only at the time they didn’t actually have a program for Mech Engineering _and_ Comp Sci, so the dean had to pull a couple of interdepartmental strings for me. But, yeah, the Neuroscience degree is a completely different story.” He trails off, frowning in concentration at the scan. “That’s not right…” He mutters to himself, bowing his head to consult his clipboard.

“What?” 

“Well, I mean, there’s an obvious reduction of volume in the hippocampus _here_,” Tim says, circling something completely unintelligible on the scan, “and signs of abnormally increased activity in the amygdala as well as the prefrontal cortex _here_,” he points to a separate chart, “which match the tracking records of your simulation test. But it wasn’t _immediate_. And it’s all…unilateral.” Tim lapses off. Jason watches as the light of realization gradually dawns on his face. 

“You were never synced up.” Tim pronounces slowly. “Even from the beginning—he never even _initiated_ a neural handshake.”

Jason manages not to snort. “Seriously, dude? It took you two days and all these fancy charts to come to that conclusion? I could’ve told you that the moment I exited the Sims Room.”

“No, no no no no. This is _proof, _you see,” Tim says fiercely. “That little _brat_—” he curses under his breath, scrambling to turn off the projector and tuck it haphazardly under one arm. “I need to show this to Bruce, _now_.”

Jason kicks his feet up on the desk. “Be my guest,” he gestures lazily, but Tim is already whirling out of the room like a hurricane.

*

**KWOON COMBAT ROOM, 1900 HOURS.**

Dick eventually finds Damian in the combat room, pummeling the shit out of a punching bag. He must have been at it for hours, because there is sweat running down his forehead and the strain is starting to show in the way he throws his punches—shoulders tense, timing slightly off. Damian is relentless in his anger, Dick knows this. When he slips into a temper like this, Dick is the only one that can persuade him out of it. He knows this too.

It’s why Bruce sent him, after all.

“You know we just got that three weeks ago? After spending, like, six months on a waiting list. Apparently there’s a shortage of punching bags this side of the continent.”

“What. Do. You. _Want_. Grayson.” Damian grits out, punctuating each word with a punch. 

Dick shrugs, circling around to face him. “Just to talk. What happened in there? I thought the two of you, uh, _hit_ it off pretty well.” He jokes. Dick’s terrible sense of humor is one of the things that irk Damian to no end, but conversely, seem to make Damian more tolerant of him. 

“It’s not my fault Todd is so incompetent at controlling his own _mind_.” Damian snarls as he slams his fist into the punching bag. “He is unbalanced, inept, unworthy of piloting a Jaeger. I don’t know what father ever saw in him.”

“Hey, now,” Dick chides, “that’s a little harsh.”

Damian glares at the punching bag like he’s envisioning a Kaiju’s face. “He doesn’t deserve to be my co-pilot.”

Dick sighs. “You know that isn’t true.” He sits down on the mat, folding his legs beneath him. “C’mere,” he says, patting the space next to him. “Talk to me.”

Damian trudges over sullenly, tugging at the strap around his fist. He doesn’t speak for a moment, eyes focused on the battered glove, and Dick waits patiently.

“I just don’t see why I can’t pilot with you.” Damian grinds out eventually. 

Dick sighs again. “Dami, we’ve been through this. The coast needs more than just Titan and Spoiler.”

“So get someone _else_ to pilot the new Jaeger!”

“There isn’t anyone else. No one in the Academy is half as good as you.” Dick crooks a small smile, but Damian doesn’t smile back.

“Troy and West—” 

“Are both Lefties and you know that. We can’t afford to take that risk.”

Damian glares down at his fists and fumes. It’s an old argument, one they’ve tossed back and forth far too many times. 

“So that’s it then.” Damian says. “I’m stuck with a loose cannon while you go off saving the world with your_ team_.”

The bitterness and betrayal in his voice are painfully evident, and it hurts, having to hear it; but to acknowledge it would be far worse. There’s a reason why these arguments never reach an actual conclusion, and Dick is more at fault than he’d like to admit.

But still...now is not the time. Dick shoves down the guilt welling inside him, locks it up and buries it far away from his mind, then swallows. 

“Jason was—is a good Ranger. A good co-pilot. You saw for yourself, at the Kwoon.” He extends a hand, palm upraised in appeasement. “Everything will work out, if you would only let it.” 

The plea in Dick’s voice is more pronounced than he’d like to admit. But Damian does not take it. He just stares down at Dick’s outstretched hand, for a long time, saying nothing. Then, abruptly, he raises his head and looks Dick straight in the eyes, his own tumultuous and penetrating. A dull, familiar buzz starts at the nape of Dick’s neck, spreading tingles all over his skin, and he realizes that Damian is _searching_ him. Searching for an answer he doubts he even possesses.

Then, just when Dick thinks he can’t bear the weight of Damian’s gaze any longer, the tingling stops. Damian averts his eyes, and there is a trace of disappointment in his face that anyone else might have missed. But Dick knows him better than anyone. He does not miss it.

“Fine.” Damian says in a deadened tone. “_Fine_.” He rises to leave and Dick watches him go, the lines in his back rigid with something colder than resignation. The doors swing shut with an echo of finality, and Dick is hit by the sudden, crushing realization that this may be the last time they ever speak of this again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate ending on cliffhangers but this chapter was getting way too long and my OCD likes things more evenly lengthed... so here you have 2000+ words of zero plot development, thanks again for reading


End file.
